Working title: Crash
by Sonnevi
Summary: Survival in the jungle isn't easy. Warning: wip
1. Default Chapter

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Date: 04 March 2002  
  
WARNING: Gross-out factor ahead. Descriptions may be a little too real, depending on your taste. Some details I vaguely remember watching on Discovery Channel, and if I couldn't remember, I just made up -- look 'em up yourself, if you're so picky. I know nothing of Army, military, Rangers, procedures, etc. except for what Hollywood has thrown at me, so that's not likely to be accurate, either. Don't say I never said anything!  
  
Other warnings: Suffice to say, I have never watched the pilot episode, so this is all on blind faith. I may consult with the keeper of canon, but if it doesn't go with what you know or feel is right, then tooooo bad.  
  
Disclaimers: Almost forgot this part... none of 'em are mine, never have been, never will be (... but they're soooooo fun to play with! )  
  
Special thanks to Shelly, who has promised her support even if the building blows.  
  
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Crash  
by Sonnevi  
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The day-to-day business of living takes on a whole new meaning away from the civilized areas. Suddenly, without the tools and things that make us feel superior and confident, the idea of survival of the fittest is no joke.   
  
With modern communication and transportation, we say the world is shrinking all the time. Still, it can still be pretty darn big -- especially when you're far away from anyone and everything.   
  
Imagine then, if you would, how lonely you would feel if this happened to you.   
  
Your companions have all just died in the crash that left you here, wherever "here" is. They may not have been your friends, but they were comrades whom you respected and would have trusted with your life. You have only a rough idea of where you are, with no other human beings in sight. You are left with nothing, and have absolutely no one to turn to.   
  
The wilderness presses all around. Every sound is startling, unfamiliar. Nothing smells the way it should; the only hint of manmade things comes from the wreck behind you.   
  
Every flash at the corner of your eye could be the only sign of the wild animal that will claw or rip you to death, every bright plant or tree a warning signal.   
  
The scavengers will come by soon, attracted by the flesh, repelled for now only by the smoke from the wreckage. You know enough to know that there is plenty of danger, while at the same time you wish you knew more so you could be more certain of staying alive.   
  
As far as you can see (which isn't very far), everything is the same. No direction seems different from the other. The insects' hum is driving you nuts, and while you might have enjoyed the weather if you were on vacation, it isn't quite the best thing for moving, much less completing the mission.  
  
There can be no mission when one is dead, however.  
  
*********  
  
He had only minor injuries from the crash, and hardly anything on him. Under any other conditions, he would have been fine until help came. Unfortunately, these weren't any other conditions.  
  
The place where the plane crashed hardly even showed a scar from above. Whatever broken spaces might have acted as a marker would easily be overgrown in the plant competition for light, space, and growth -- the jungle canopy would appear unbroken soon. Even if he could count on help, which he couldn't right now. There was no telling if the mayday had gotten through - he couldn't afford to assume so. Regardless, the immediate priority was to survive. The easiest way would be to find other people, which would mean supplies, aid, and hopefully, communication.  
  
He walked carefully but steadily along the same direction the plane was pointing at, which was the way to the mission site. It was as good a direction as any, hopefully better. He'd seen no sign of civilization from above -- but then, he hadn't been looking for any. He'd been preoccupied with his own thoughts then.   
  
For a while he tried to walk faster than the cloud of flies and insects that surrounded him, then realized the futility. He likewise quit swatting at them, although they bit persistently, homing in on his body heat and open wounds. He was only wasting his energy, when he had none to spare if he was to make it.  
  
The going was difficult from the first. The muddy terrain seemed determined to make him stay where he was. Each step was an effort, a fight against the tenacious and simultaneously slippery footing, while at the same time he had to pay attention so as not to trip on the exposed and similarly slippery roots. He had no machete to hack at the branches barring his way. 'Why not wish for a power saw while you're at it?' he thought. Useless to wish.   
  
The heat was bad, he was sweating and losing a lot of water, while at the same time, the humidity ensured that the body's ordinary cooling mechanism brought no relief.  
  
*********  
  
People who stay by downed transportation in the mistaken notion that rescuers can home in on something that large, or with the perhaps brighter but still fatal notion that the plane provides shelter, usually die. What might be true elsewhere is not true here. The elements are the least danger in the tropical jungle, and shelter from such doesn't really mean a thing. This doesn't mean that the environment won't kill you for your stupidity, but it does mean that there are myriad other things to worry about: animal, vegetable, and mineral.  
  
******************  
  
He had taken a little time to erect markers for the rest of his team, even though it cost him precious time and energy that he might need later. He thought of them while he walked, what to say to their families. And he remembered.  
  
******************  
  
"Captain?" asked one of the men on his team. "How long 'till the drop zone?" His men knew their business, and were all business. No idle chitchat here.   
  
"Not far now," he reassured them. On the early legs of the mission, he had quietly thought over the aspects of the mission, laying it out in his mind as clearly as possible, as was his wont, but that time was long over. Now was the time for being relaxed but watchful, not for wasting energy -- not for worrying, dreaming, planning, or thinking. These things only left both mind and body ill-prepared for the actual situation.  
  
A few of his men talked quietly among themselves, a couple had their eyes closed and appeared to be resting. Only one showed the impatient movement of the nervous, but there was still time. He'd call him to settle down in a while.  
  
But he never did.  
  
*******************  
  
He was tired. Not yet exhausted, but tired. He had been pushed, and had pushed himself, to his limits often enough to be able to tell the difference.   
  
'Score one for training,' he thought. No safe, controlled environment, this, though. No assurance that at the end of it all, he would be given sufficient rest or food. No guarantee, even, that he would be able to see the end. The jungle, while not as vast as in previous centuries, was still more than large enough to swallow a mere man as easily as a bug.  
  
In the beginning of his trek, he had listened carefully to the sounds around him -- every noise strange and distracting. No telling what animal lurked out there. Now he hardly paid attention beyond his harsh breathing.   
  
The insects had bitten him to death long ago and even now, the flies persisted. Each step was a continuous fight, and he only hoped that none of the branches that had scored had poisonous thorns.   
  
He finally hit upon a path of sorts. Maybe it was made by animals going to water. He would need water soon, or die of dehydration in this moist jungle.   
  
False trail. It led nowhere. Sound echoed weirdly -- was he imagining the sound of water? He felt he could almost smell it, but that wasn't saying much, here. Surely it was his imagination. It would be better not to get distracted by false hopes. For all the humidity, there hadn't been a drop of rain yet, and he couldn't see through the trees if there were clouds. The brightness around was his only clue that the sun was up, no ray touched the ground he tread. But while it had only been late afternoon when the plane fell and could only be early evening yet, it was rapidly becoming dark. He idly wondered if he would be reduced to chewing leaves, as though he were in a desert.  
  
*******************  
  
He was basing all this on hope. Was this worth it? To give up would be sure death. . . but he was so tired. Did it matter so much? He hurt all over. Just when he thought he'd become accustomed to it, a slight movement the wrong way would set him aching again, or some plants brushing against his sores would cause them to flare. He looked at them in disgust and revulsion. He could practically *feel* the slugs inside eating him alive. It smelled horrible, too, but he couldn't afford to squash them. It was almost like being a living corpse, having those sores, some as large as quarters. It was those damned insects, which were even now biting every exposed area. Attracted by the blood, they had laid their eggs in his open wounds and the maggots there were hatching, feeding and growing. If he had some fire, he might try cauterizing them, but he had none, and no means of making one. He was too tired to try rubbing two sticks together, and at any rate, nothing was suitable, being altogether too damp to hold a flame.  
  
But Mother Nature breeds the instinct for survival in the deepest part of ourselves. Survival is first a frame of mind.  
  
He stopped to rest a while, giving himself a break. He walked slower to cool off, then sat down. He was so exhausted, every beat of his heart shook his whole body in a kind of metronomic rocking, back and forth, not at all interrupted by his breathing. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, trying to regroup.   
  
Did he dare sleep? Predators usually favor the darkness. A growl, a noise that could have come from anywhere, decided him. He needed the rest, but he couldn't afford to sleep. Not just yet. After a little inspection, a rock seemed it would provide the best shelter for the moment. No snakes nor spiders under or beside it, and seemingly none in the immediate area. He could put his back to it and have one less direction to worry about.  
  
*******************  
  
Animals are extremely dangerous. They blend in the trees, plants, and ground, striking from concealment -- suddenly, with hardly any warning. Even worse, if they don't blend in, they probably don't need to - it means they have teeth, claws, strength, numbers or brains to take on anything. Day or night, one has more than enough reason enough to be wary.  
  
Movement is also a problem. The dense foliage makes it seem as if the plants themselves deliberately bar one's way. Their growth almost seems to happen overnight. One cannot but brush against them, and often one has to fight one's way through them - through branches, leaves, and perhaps even thorns . . . poisonous? Who can say?  
  
Neither can one trust the water. Nor even perhaps, the air. Specks of pollen and spores can cause allergic reactions. Infection and sickness can come from the literal millions of bacteria, viruses, molds and protozoa that float in the air, cling to the ground and plants, and on and within the water.  
  
One can trust no food except that which one has brought. The idea of the lush jungle being paradise, providing one with sustenance all around to be merely picked at will, is false. Tempting fruit can be overripe, underripe, or just plain toxic at any stage. Even native tribes have to hunt and work to find their food.   
  
And these are just the things we know about. There are hundreds of other factors, no less threatening for being unknown, no less dangerous for being unintentional side-effects of some other process or struggle.  
  
Life, in all its forms, struggles to exist.  
  
Walk with care.  
  
*********** 


	2. 

He heard voices. He stopped to look around, but there was no one. He kept walking, wondering whether he was hallucinating. How many days had he been walking? Was it weeks already?  
  
Fire? A fire would be welcome. He hadn't been foolish enough to strip all his clothes, though it had been extremely tempting in the heat. He came to himself with a start. It was much darker than he remembered. There was no sign of any sort of fire at all, what could he have been thinking of?. He decided to bed down for the night.  
  
The next day, he walked some more. Miles away, perhaps guided by instinct, he marvelled to indeed find the remains of a fire, but it was long cold. He himself had no means of making a fire, but it would have been welcome.   
  
It was so hard to stop, sometimes, because it would be that much harder to start again. He was quite, quite tempted to keep going without stopping at all, but that would be foolhardy. Exhaustion would kill as inexorably as anything would. Death wouldn't mind how it took him, anyway.  
  
But a fire was a good sign. It meant people. Voices he could discount, but ashes were real. Ashes and dust, wasn't that all that was left?  
  
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Author's notes: As you can see, I did decide to post what I've got, incomplete as they are. This was started in 1998 also, a bit before Chance. It's almost at the end, though it's stuck right now. Happily ever after, how else can it end? We do know that he survived and met the Chopec, after all.   
  
This was written before all those Survivor shows came out. It was just that I saw this gross but real-life scene in Discovery where this girl was actually picking maggots out of her arm. I don't recall the exact details and it's doubtful that I'll ever catch that episode again, but if I recall correctly, she did crash and somehow managed to make her way to an outpost.   
  
You'd think that you'd be able to do something, before it got to that gross stage, maybe shoo away the flies in the first place, but you can't, they follow you around, and you can't get the eggs out, especially without any tools. And it was important for some reason to pick them out at the correct stage -- I think so that you can be sure to get the whole thing and not leave any head or part of the parasite inside. Yeeuugghhh!   
  
At any rate, I figured that this was a part of the Sentinel lore that was unexplored, the time between the crash and his time with the tribe. I don't think it was just a walk in the park... 


End file.
